Sometimes you settle on the spark of something to write, then you forget it or think it's not worth writing about. Then you hit the paper or keyboard and decide to write about thinking about deciding not to write what you originally thought of writing, but felt wasn't worth it, and how you think it's just a waste of time to take up a blog post writing about not being able to write. But then what happens is, you become self-aware, turn a metaphysical corner and find that you're actually writing about the problem of writing, falling through a continuous self-referential wormhole where you observe yourself, writing about yourself, writing about yourself; you're engaged in the most obnoxious, self-congratulating spiral of self-loving literature. This is about when you realize you've written about a paragraph and that's about good enough for the internet. That, and a list-based diatribe on pop culture artifacts.
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